A single thought carries with it a message of many meanings. What’s written in good faith can easily be construed as reckless driving…ripping down foundations of trust while sinking a large ship in a puddle of whack-it-tee whack whack faith gone wild.
The energy one pushes through a writing instrument and or computer keyboard has ways of taking left turns at railroad tracks that were never laid and by measures not always in one’s control the page put on display resembles a rooftop or patio set not originally purchased. When not received in the way intended, levels of emotion are raised and often times erase whatever relationship existed.
We are the generation blessed with the most visible and physical ways to carry out the art of communications. From office and personal emails, to Face Book, My Space, Twitter and quickly becoming old fashioned cell phone texting…the concept of bridging gaps seems to be fueling a fire between the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s.
Singer/songwriter John Mayer’s relationship with actress Jennifer Aniston was shattered due to his addiction to Twitter. He spent more time communicating with a world he barely knew then getting to know the one woman millions of us would like to know.
Openly admitting that I am an artist means nothing to those who aren’t an artist. To say I am an artist means I am open for abuse. When your writing and paintings go on display, basically you’ve opened your soul to ridicule and rejection. It doesn’t mean I instantly go numb when receiving another person’s view…being an artist represents nothing more than saying, “I have the guts to take what’s been hidden and give it to the world.”
Who taught me that? Peter Max, Paul Stanley of Kiss and Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane who’ve taken their artistic canvas presentations and put them in places that allow passerby’s to point, make faces and or grunt like a wild beast un-creatively out of control. Does it bother them? On the outside, the shells they carry are rough, rugged and can’t be torn. Inside, one would hope they never become hard because art is constantly fed by an invisible compassion not seen by the norm until one day a framed presentation screams at them so loud it becomes a permanent fixture on their wall.
A single sentence can become another person’s entire paragraph. The visitor wastes no time exposing their opinion…never realizing their method of receiving the message could in fact be a reflection of their own emotions in the mirror.
Poet’s write very little knowing less is more. It is the one shape of communication that’s constantly eaten up then spit out in junior high school classes to writer’s circles worldwide. Yet…let it be known, thanks to poetry and or limericks, it has the strength to end bloody several decade old wars.
Songwriters repeat the chorus in ways of making sure you heard it a second and or third time, sadly, once inside…all too often we’ve heard the wrong words, replacing it instead with something we assume, so we spend the rest of our lives singing the wrong song until a Karaoke machine slams us back into place.
Honestly…who thought Relax from Frankie Goes to Hollywood was about what it’s truly all about? It’s one of those American Top 40 moments Grandfather Casey Kasum should’ve shared with us but we had to wait until VH-1’s Behind the Music corrected our musical vision. Suddenly, fewer people are singing along.
My first works of poetry published inside the warmth of hard covers came under firm attack from publishers wanting titles. Calmly writing back to them in ways to better explain that titles are judged, therefore my works would remain as such…they vividly painted a signed letter exclaiming, “Find someone else.” Once bent in the ways of those who front the bucks to make it work…titles were created so my ego could see its face in a book at the store. Three books later…it became boring so I stopped…opening the door for my next book One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts filled with over one thousand titles.
Mom always warned, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Titles of chapters, web pages, or messages printed on the bottom of your email leave the door wide open for what artists see daily…that single chance for a passerby to pick their nose and rub it on the corner so nobody purchases it.
Rather than call it a Bucket List…why not just do it? There’s no need to apologize for the things you didn’t accomplish… It’s not a Christmas or gift list…calling it serves as nothing more than a reminder of how you might not have lived up to someone else’s expectations. I’m not a fan of birthday, get well or anniversary cards because how you feel when purchasing it has nothing to do with how the person feels receiving it.
At this point in the conversation it’s only natural to think, “Whoa Arroe must be picking a fight with someone who was nasty.” Not so…I’m only relating with 99% of a world begging to be disconnected from communicating because none of us really have anything to say.
Steal my art…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
No comments:
Post a Comment